Page 4 of The Colour of Revenge
"I suggest a more,” I pause, thinking, “theatrical approach.” My tone is edged with amusement. "You're on the right track—he's squirming, which is half the fun. But you're not giving him the finality he deserves."
Her eyes lock onto mine, calculating, daring me to elaborate.
"What do you mean?" she asks, voice low, curiosity laced with something darker.
I lean slightly, just enough that my breath ghosts over her ear. Her grip on the knife tightens.
"Pain's a beautiful thing, Princess," I murmur. "It can be an art. You should make him beg for it—then make him regret ever thinking he could hurt you. Or anyone else."
I step back, watching her. Looking for hesitation. A flicker of doubt.
There's none.
She's as cold as I thought she'd be.
A slow smile curves my lips.
"If you're going to do this, make it last." I keep my tone gentle. "Don't let him slip away so easily." My fingers twitch toward my knives, but I don't draw them. Not yet.
"I'll show you how it's done."
I kneel beside Winslow, the floor cool against my skin. With a flick of my wrist, I lift his shirt just enough to expose the ridges of his ribs. His breath stutters, and his chest rises and falls panicked.
I extend a hand toward her, palm up.
"Knife."
She hesitates, but only for a second. Then, with deliberate care, she presses the hilt into my hand. The blade is sleek, glinting under the dim light—delicate but just as deadly as any of mine.
I could use my own. But there’s something intimate about using hers.
Winslow’s eyes widen as I press the tip of the blade against his skin—light enough to prickle, sharp enough to promise agony. He goes rigid, his body thrumming with silent terror.
He knows.
He’s in the presence of not just one killer, but two.
“Every part of this man should scream,” I murmur, dragging the knife just enough to make him twitch. A slow, shuddering breath leaves him. “Every inch of his skin should burn with fear. It’s not about rushing through it—it’s about savouring the moment.”
I press deeper, just enough to break the skin. A thin crimson line blossoms across his ribs. He gasps, his chest jerking, but it’s not the pain I’m after.
It’s the realisation.
The slow, dawning horror that he’s completely at our mercy.
I glance up at her, the sharpness of my expression inviting, daring. “Your turn, Princess. Show me what you’ve got.”
She watches me, her lips parting slightly, her grip tightening at her sides. Her gaze flickers between the knife and the thin line of blood, something unreadable flashing in her eyes.
Then, without a word, she steps forward.
She takes the blade with practised ease, her fingers curling around the hilt in a delicate and sure grip. Then she kneels beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth, her scent—a mix of adrenaline and something sweet beneath it.
A glance at Winslow’s terrified face and her lips curl into something almost… amused.
Good.
She mirrors my movements, pressing the tip of the blade to his chest. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to ensure he’ll never forget it.
